


Service

by coffeethyme4me



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-23
Updated: 2010-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeethyme4me/pseuds/coffeethyme4me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal convinced me he's best when he's not free.  (D/s)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asimaiyat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimaiyat/gifts).



> Don't own 'em.

I used to know what service was. Country, citizens, badge, duty. It had everything to do with these things.

I didn't know it could look like this: like Neal's bare knees bruising on the floor while he waits to please me.

I didn't get it at first. I didn't want to see him hurt. I'm not a slave owner. I believe, stringently and explicitly, in freedom.

Neal convinced me he's best when he's not free. He turned everything I know upside down.

And the first time he bowed his head to the floor like a monk, perfect pale bottom tilted up and open, for me to use, fuck, beat, slap, kiss, ignore…. Part of me fell into little pieces, while part of me stood up as a man for the first time.

Neal has taught me about responsibility more than my job has.

He's in front of me now. Sometime I make him wait behind me, because the kiss of my look in his direction lets him know he is loved, is doing so good. But it deprives *me* of *him*, so as often as not, he kneels at my feet.

He's gotten me my coffee. He knows now how to do it exactly right. His proud smile when he sets it on the table is an art no one could ever forge. He's gotten me the paper, to Satchmo's head-tilted dog bemusement. When I pet Neal's head, his soft hair tickling the insides of my fingers, his sigh is everything I never dared to want.

It's not always sexual, you see. The coffee, the paper…he'll do anything I ask, and all tasks are as important as the last. Neal has learned to take pride in himself. That every gesture is something I cherish. I breathe him in like jasmine; he's so sweet and open, but especially at night.

Fucking is different than the service. It's as much for his immediate pleasure as mine. But he has to earn it. These are the rules. This is what makes him mine. This is what lets him know he's safe and good and right and that I will keep him always.

He waits now, on the floor, nude, unwrapped. I've never seen someone so perfectly made but whose eyes still hold the innocence of someone who, though he uses his perfection to please others, doesn't fully believe in it himself.

I've made him sit there while I stroke his neck and shoulders idly. The game's on. When I glance down, I see that Neal is so hard he's dripping, and the shine of pre-cum follows the delicate veins of his cock.

"Lie on the floor and throw your legs up here," I tell him. My voice doesn't have to rise. I crack no whip. Neal shimmies down until he's lying, head pointed at the TV I'm watching, face up, legs up on the couch. I pull them apart, one on each side of me, and then I pull him toward me more until his ass is off the ground and his weight's on his upper back. His dick spills a little slick onto his stomach and it starts a slow roll toward his chest. I'm so hard.

I take his balls in my hand and work them gently. I watch the game. Neal whines, his eyes closing. I squeeze and roll and pinch and weigh them in my hot palm and Neal fights not to pump his hips up and down.

"Easy," I tell him. He stills, choking a sound back into his throat. "Good boy." I open my legs up and, in the process, wrench Neal's open wider.

I dip my finger into his hole like it's a bowl of sugar. In the effort not to buck or scream, Neal's whole body dances a graceful shiver. I fuck, shallowly, and watch the game.

Neal is desperate to move now. I fuck just to the knuckle and almost back out again. Neal's nerves are on fire with it, his asshole itching to clench and ride and open. I know he'll come if I keep it up another two minutes. My own pre-cum is spreading a dark circle on my jeans.

I make him take it, the agony. He's shaking uncontrollably, nonstop now. I love him like this. I love him so much.

I take his magnificent cock, so deep-pink and ringed with musky black hair, in my hand. I rub my thumb under the crown, so soft and sweet. I say two words, "Yes, Neal," and he shoots cum all down his stomach and chest. I yank hard on his cock while he comes. This is for Neal…because that bit of pain and humiliation makes the orgasm last longer, makes his hips fuck like an animal and the moans mix with tears.

When he comes down, I don't let him slip away from me. This is still about my need, and when I say, "Give me your hands," he does, and I pull him up off the floor in one fierce tug, forcing a high grunt from his wet lips. He lands in my lap, straddling my packed crotch. I don't have to tell him what to do; he starts humping me hard, even though it will hurt his beautiful cock. He rubs his spent dick and plump balls all over my denim-covered cock, the rest of him limp across my chest, face buried in my neck where I can feel his hot breath.

I wish I could last longer. I wish I could hold him like this forever. But he's riding me fast, just his hips moving, his horny little asshole scraping over my crotch now, and it's so vulgar and hot that I can't stop it and I shoot, only the barrier of my clothes keeping my semen from jetting all over his hungry hole.

And I whisper in his neck, "Neal, Neal, Neal, Jesus Neal…"

I finish watching the game like that, with Neal draped across me. He falls asleep like that, me with one hand on the remote and the other on the back of his head.

El gets home, clutching her keys to keep them from jingling when she sees Neal sleeping.

"Hi, honey," she whispers.

"Hey baby."

She takes off her coat and smiles. She pets the happy dog.

"How was the thing?" I ask her.

I tilt my head back on the couch to see her smirk. "The *thing*," she says, "was good." Then, "Was he?" nodding at Neal.

She runs her hand over my head and I kiss Neal's. I whisper into his hair, "Yeah. He was good."

"I'm gonna make a snack," El says.

"Okay," I answer.

Neal shifts against me, heavy but good. The Nets make another three pointer, and I don't even care. I have everything I want right here.


End file.
